by Brandt Legg
Chapter Seventeen
The Wizard had been right. Although seventeen NorthBridge suspects were arrested in a nationwide sweep by the FBI, none of the “terrorists” seemed impressive enough to have eluded capture during the intense investigations and biggest manhunt in US history which had consumed most of the prior two years. The president questioned the FBI Director, asking if she believed those in custody were really part of NorthBridge, or had been set up as decoys. The director insisted they were legitimate members, and pointed to NorthBridge’s demands that their people be freed, or the nation should prepare for severe retribution.
Dranick was not convinced. After having an opportunity to question the “NorthBridge Seventeen,” he could glean no actionable intelligence from any of them.
“Not one bit of useful information,” he told the president.
“The director claims NorthBridge has evaded arrest all this time by keeping its members in isolated cells,” Hudson said, “saying that they don’t know who their superiors are.”
“Too easy,” Dranick muttered. “Two years and nothing but a bunch of low-level nobodies?”
“It took almost ten years to get Bin Laden.”
“The leaders of NorthBridge aren’t in some lawless, third world, border region. They’re in America.”
“Just because they say they are?”
“No, because NorthBridge is fighting a revolution, and a revolution cannot happen without revolutionaries on the ground.” Dranick suddenly looked like an older version of himself, perhaps a Native American chief from long ago. “Where are the revolutionaries?”
Congressional hearings began on NorthBridge. Lawmakers wanted to know why more arrests hadn’t been made, and demanded to see what information and evidence the intelligence agencies had on the terrorists. The president saw it as another distraction from his crusade against the REMies, which was frustratingly slow even on its very best days.
The Wizard and Crane, using Gypsy and a number of other methods, had gathered petabytes of data on the REMies’ practices, structure, and holdings. However, Hudson’s plan to destroy the REMies (code named “Cherry Tree” in honor of George Washington, whose portrait had sparked the inspiration) wasn’t even close to ready.
He finally broached the subject with Melissa over dinner in the residence. “I think I know how to beat the REMies,” he said while cutting into his filet mignon.
“Are you sure you want to have this conversation in the White House?” Melissa asked, dabbing a bite of chicken into some incredible sauce—so delicious, she’d already asked for the name and recipe.
“I’ve got the SonicBlock on,” he said.
She nodded. “Good. Maybe I better have more wine.”
He smiled. “Maybe we should order something stronger.” He laughed. “Anyway, it was George Washington who gave me the idea.”
“Do you two speak often? Perhaps in the Lincoln bedroom?”
“Washington led the revolutionary army against Great Britain,” he began, ignoring her questions. “After doing the impossible by defeating the most powerful military on earth, he served as the first president. They tried to make him King of America, but he’d have none of it.”
“Still a history teacher,” Melissa said, moving some broccoli into the remaining sauce on her plate.
“But the most important thing old George ever did was stepping down from power.”
Melissa nodded. She’d heard part of this lecture before, and knew nothing could stop him now.
“For the first time in the history of the world, a revolutionary leader voluntarily gave up power after winning it.” Hudson’s face lit up whenever he told the story, his awe for the country’s first president very evident. “King George once famously asked his American painter, Benjamin West, what Washington would do after winning independence. West replied, ‘They say he will return to his farm.’ King George responded incredulously, ‘If he does that, Washington will be the greatest man in the world.’”
“And how does this help us defeat the REMies?” Melissa dutifully asked.
“Washington gave up power because he wanted the people to be in charge,” Hudson said, as if it was obvious. “The great American experiment!”
“Let me see if I’m following you,” Melissa said, pouring more wine for both of them. “The REMies are King George, and you’re George Washington?
“We don’t have enough power to stop the REMies. They control too much, but we have one massive advantage. They’re outnumbered by more than seven billion! If the people learn the truth, they’ll take the power back from the REMies.” He raised his glass to her triumphantly. “A repressed people will always revolt.”
Chapter Eighteen
For the next several months, there were no additional NorthBridge arrests, but the terror group struck against three Federal buildings in separate incidents, in different cities. NorthBridge claimed they would continue to attack until the seventeen were released. The US population was increasingly fractured, and the economy had fallen into a downward spiral fueled by fear of terrorism and the increasing possibility of war between the world’s largest trading partners—the US and China.
Dranick was making more progress in identifying the shadow government and Deep State than he was with NorthBridge. At the same time, the Wizard, utilizing Fonda’s REMie files and Crane’s Gypsy work, reported to Hudson that they “might be only weeks away from cracking the CapStone conspiracy wide open.”
Hudson himself was exhausted. No sign of Rochelle, NorthBridge striking with impunity, ISIS more active around the world, the domestic economic woes beginning to affect the global economies, and all of it seeming to push the US closer to war.
“When you’re up to your ass in alligators, it’s difficult to remember your initial objective was to drain the swamp,” Melissa said to him on the morning he was heading to Portland, Oregon, to give a major foreign policy speech, making the case for war to an international peace conference.
Hudson forced a laugh. He was too agitated to see much humor these days. “And I’m about to walk into the lion’s den,” he said, thinking of his upcoming speech.
“At least you’ll get some time with Florence.”
It had been months since he’d seen his daughter more than fleetingly, but she and his brother, Ace, as well as his sister, Jenna, would be riding along on this trip. It had been Florence’s idea that her dad needed more “family time.” The week before, it had been Schueller and Hudson’s sister, Trixie.
“I’m looking forward to it, but when is it your turn?”
Melissa gave him a flirty smile. “I get Thanksgiving weekend.”
“Good call,” he said, knowing they would be taking five days off and spending the holiday in the Virgin Islands. “No work.”
“Exactly.” She blew him three kisses.
Two weeks, he thought. I sure need it. Being president is so much harder than anyone knows.
It had been strange for Hudson, because he’d expected the REMies to be telling him what to do, but no one had. Now, he almost wished for someone else to make the tough decisions. Almost, but not quite.
“That was quite a speech,” Linh said, “but I still don’t understand. If you’re trying to make the case for war, why speak at a peace rally?”
Hudson wasn’t surprised to see her this time. After all, he knew that the Inner Movement, as a major proponent of peace, opposed a potential war with China. There was no point in trying to explain to her all the complicated nuances of why the United States would have to stop communist China’s aggressive expansion. Linh was one of those naïve people who believed there was always a peaceful solution. Hudson certainly wished there was another way, but sometimes bullies and despots only understood force and retaliation.
The reception was crowded, and not exactly friendly territory. Most of the people there had not voted for him. This was simply a public relations tour to drum up support for the impending conflict, which he no longer thought could b
e avoided. Yet, despite their differences, he still believed Linh was an ally.
“The discussion of ideas, debating, and discourse are the pillars on which democracies are based. We must listen to each other, even when—and especially when—we disagree,” Hudson said.
Linh’s face reflected his own frustration. He stared a little too long, until an aide interrupted with just the word, “Sir?”
Hudson turned and saw there were more people waiting to talk to him. There were always so many people waiting.
Linh took half a step back, as if acknowledging the others, then stopped, started to speak, paused again, and finally said, “Your remarks reminded me of Dr. King’s mountaintop speech. Do you know it?”
“Of course,” Hudson said. “‘Well, I don’t know what will happen now,’” he began, delivering King’s famous words in an evangelical tone. “‘We’ve got some difficult days ahead. But it really doesn’t matter with me now because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I don’t mind. Like anybody, I would like to live – a long life; longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And he’s allowed me to go to the mountaintop. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the promised land. And I might not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. So I’m happy, tonight. I’m not worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.’”
Applause broke out from those gathered near enough to hear his rendition. Linh smiled, obviously impressed he could recite Martin Luther King Jr.’s words from memory. “Then, of course, you know when he gave that speech?”
Hudson nodded, the significance dawning on him. “The night before he was assassinated,” he said softly, almost to himself. Hudson recalled seeing Linh in the audience before the attempt on his life at the stadium. He looked into her eyes. She had the same sad, concerned expression as she’d had that day. He stared hard, in that fleeting moment, as the crowd was pushing him one direction and her the other, as if to ask, Is it going to happen again?
She was swept away before he got an answer. As he tried to visually follow her in the crowd, he felt burdened with an inexplicable sense of loss. Suddenly, three young women were in front of him, singing a medley of John Lennon’s Imagine and Give Peace a Chance.
Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for . . .
All we are saying is give peace a chance
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people sharing all the world
All we are saying is give peace a chance
Another ten agonizing and awkward minutes later, he was in the motorcade, heading to the airport. Fitz was on the phone.
“Great speech,” his chief of staff said. He had pushed for Hudson to speak at the peace event to justify the war amidst his biggest critics, when most others in the administration were against it. “The first round of comments from the media are looking good. One of the cable news anchors even compared you to Kennedy during the Cuban missile crisis. They’re eating it up. They love you.”
“Trying to sell a war to the country,” Hudson said, still preoccupied by the exchange with Linh. “If we have to sell it, is it really the right thing to do?”
“Come on, Mr. President, no one wants to go to war. They have to be convinced that it’s worth all the blood and money. Look at World War II, Mr. History Teacher. It took Pearl Harbor to convince Americans it was time to stop Japan, and Roosevelt used the anger about the attack to declare war on Germany at the same time. There will always be peace demonstrators, but public opinion is shifting, and your decision to walk right into the opposition and confront them head on is going to convince a lot of people.”
The night before, he had debated one of the leading peace activists in the country, and although his opponent made a few good points, Hudson, a master debater, clearly won.
Florence, who had attended the peace conference with her father, believed the war could, and should, still be avoided. She told him about a presentation where she heard a talk by three former Nobel Peace Prize recipients, but before Hudson could comment, his brother Ace and sister Jenna, both veterans, took over the conversation.
“So many people don’t understand,” Ace said. “The relative peace and prosperity we’ve enjoyed in this country is because we’re always prepared to go to war.”
His sister echoed Ace’s sentiments. “Sometimes the only way to have peace is to go to war.”
Chapter Nineteen
The nineteen-vehicle motorcade rolled across the tarmac, with The Beast stopping in front of the stairs attached to Air Force One. The president spoke for several minutes to VIPs, including a general, the Mayor of Portland, and a few other dignitaries. At the same time, staff, and certain members of the media, were boarding the plane using the rear stairs.
As Hudson climbed the steps, the larger crowd, gathered beyond the rope line, cheered. He felt guilty for not having gone over to greet them, but the schedule was tight. Although the peace conference had publicly been the main reason for his trip, he would now be flying down to San Francisco for an international banking conference that would include a secret meeting concerning the implications for the US and world economies in the event of war with China.
At the top of the staircase, President Pound stopped, turned, and waved to the crowd gathered on the tarmac. Almost ten months into the job, he was finally feeling like the president; like he could—maybe—change things. He gave a last enthusiastic wave.
The first bullet entered through his neck. The president’s body crumpled as if all strength and rigidity had instantly left its form. Hudson never felt the second shot, which hit his lower back. Blackness surrounded him and took hold as his consciousness surrendered.
Secret Service agents scrambled into action immediately. “Teacher down! Teacher down!”
The interval between the two shots had been less than a second, but by the time the third and fourth followed three seconds later, agents were dragging the president’s body through the door. “Red-seventy! Go airborne! Now, now, now!”
There were procedures and protocols long-established and indelible in the agents’ training. However, the confusion of the moment blurred it all into a chaotic disaster. “Close it, damn it! We’re under attack!”
An agent’s head exploded, spraying blood across the presidential seal on the door as two other agents fought to pull it closed. One of them took a bullet in the leg, but they managed to get the heavily armored door closed.
The Secret Service Counter Assault Team (CAT), wielding SR-16 carbine assault rifles and other heavy artillery, began laying down suppressive fire. They were located around the motorcade vehicles, which were to be loaded into the C141 Starlifter cargo carrier plane. The armored vehicles provided good cover, and a blazing firefight ensued.
Several Phoenix Ravens, part of the US Air Force elite security commandos who traveled with Air Force One, exited the rear door and began laying down fire to protect the aircraft. Other Ravens, still onboard, started a systematic search of the jumbo jet looking for enemy combatants and explosives.
“Repelling coordinated attack,” a CAT agent radioed. “Hawkeye-Teacher, Red-seventy. Bring whiskey, hard!” His report that POTUS was in eminent danger, and the request for air support, would unleash an immediate and furious military response.
The crowd of well-wishers and onlookers had dispersed into screaming panic while two agents continued to return fire from the steps. Random explosions, ricocheting bullets, and wailing sirens turned the extreme scene apocalyptic.
Inside Air Force One, three agents, carrying the president’s body, rushed down the corridor to a small medical suite. The physician to the president, who always traveled with him, pushed through his s
tunned shock at the sight of Hudson’s injuries and quickly began prepping for surgery. His training also kicked in as he pulled down the surgical table and slid it into place. Almost simultaneously, the agents laid the lifeless body of the president onto it.
One of the protective detail agents, still outside defending the aircraft, got hit in the chest. The impact of the high-powered bullet sent him over the railing, crashing down to the concrete. Air Force One began to taxi. The lone agent remaining on the steps searched desperately for a target. Canisters of colored smoke and teargas rained down.
Inside the plane, agents had secured “the football,” the briefcase which held the codes for nuclear deployment and always traveled with the president. Agents pushed three members of the president’s family toward the rear entry. Only about a third of the reporters and staff made it on board before agents got the rear door closed and secured. The remaining people took cover in and around the motorcade vehicles.
As the plane slowly rolled toward the taxiway, Secret Service agents locked down the press quarters, guests, general staff, and dining crew areas. Ravens continued their search. Another Special Agent had assumed command of the communications room, where they were already trying to reach Vice President Brown. Air Force One had only moved seventeen feet since the attack began.
Outside, CAT agents engaged the enemy with a full arsenal of advanced weaponry until six simultaneously fired rocket-propelled grenades, “tank busters,” demolished their position, leaving only two CATs alive—barely. Two Secret Service snipers, stationed several hundred yards away on an airport building roof, and another atop a truck, searched desperately for targets. Nothing.
The president’s physician, singularly focused on reviving Hudson and saving his life, had already concluded his injuries were so grave that it might not be possible. They had plenty of the president’s blood type on board, and all the necessary equipment to complete the operation, but bullets into flesh were massively destructive. Even if they’d been at a top hospital in a major city, survival would be doubtful. A trauma team was the only hope. The real enemy had become time.